


Blood and Hunger

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Blood Drinking, Juno is into it, M/M, Peter is a vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: “How long has it been since you’ve fed?” he asks flatly.It won’t be good if his mind is going, too. “We ate a few hours ago, Juno.”“You think I didn’t see you sneaking most of your food onto my plate?” His stare is unrelenting. “Besides, what they’re feeding me wouldn’t do you any good, would it? How long has it been since you’ve actually fed?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wastrelwoods asked:
> 
> listen i know this is sort of a cliche and silly idea but now i wanna see what you would do with vampire au

The electrodes and silver knives are one thing. Those I can handle. After all, I’ve had a long time to get accustomed to pain.

Being locked in here, though? That’s the real torture. The hunger gnaws at my consciousness, demands I never stop thinking about it. Even when I try to force my mind elsewhere, it commandeers my thoughts back to the endless need for food. Even that I could take, if unhappily.

But I’m locked in here with Juno. The guards are well out of sight; out of earshot, too, unless one of us screams. And how could Juno possibly scream? He’s unconscious, after all. Perfectly defenseless at the moment when my resolve is at its weakest, and his _face–_

_There’s_ _so much blood_. 

The smell is everywhere, metallic and rich with the promise of satisfaction. It turns my hunger pains into fresh agony and leaves me shaking with need. On more than a few occasions I find myself crouching over him, inhaling that scent and _wondering_.

He wouldn’t mind if I helped to clean him up, would he? I could lap up just a little– just what’s drenching his skin. I wouldn’t leave a mark on him. He’d never even have to know. 

_It would be so easy,_ the hunger whispers. And it would be: the easiest thing in the world, just to take a sip. The question is whether I’d be able to stop myself once I started. 

When they carry him in with blood on his face, I wipe it away with the washcloth they’ve provided, and I try not to think about the smell lingering on my hands.

* * *

It’s been weeks, and every day escape seems more like a distant dream. I can barely walk anymore. When the masked assistants take us in for our daily torment, they have to physically drag me through the halls. I don’t have the strength to fight them. I can’t think in a straight line long enough to form a coherent plan– every thought veers off course to the hunger and the need. 

Maybe that’s why I don’t notice Juno’s approach until he sits down beside me, our backs to the glowing walls of the tomb.

“How long has it been since you’ve fed?” he asks flatly.

It won’t be good if his mind is going, too. “We ate a few hours ago, Juno.” 

“You think I didn’t see you sneaking most of your food onto my plate?” His stare is unrelenting. “Besides, what they’re feeding me wouldn’t do you any good, would it? How long has it been since you’ve _actually_ fed?”

It takes me too long to realize the obvious. “You know.” As with everything else, I blame the hunger, and I laugh. “Of course you know. You can read my mind.”

“I knew the first time I saw you smile,” he says. “Kind of hard not to notice teeth like that once you know what you’re looking at. Besides, you wouldn’t step inside my apartment until I welcomed you in. That was one of the first giveaways, you know, back when we did the case with the Kanagawas. You never needed an invitation; I figured you’d gotten one when you first came in to steal the Mask.”

Of course he did. My clever detective. “Most people think we’re a myth. How long have you known?”

He shrugs. “I experimented a lot in my twenties.” 

“Sounds like there’s quite a story there. You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.” 

“Maybe later,” he says. “After you’ve eaten.” 

He extends his arm to me so naturally that I assume he’s trying to hand me something– one of those awful rations they’ve been giving us, perhaps. But there’s nothing in his hands. His sleeve is pulled back to his elbow, exposing the wrist.

“No.” I push his arm away before I can give into the temptation. “As much as I appreciate the offer, Juno, it’s alright. I’ll be alright.”

“You’re literally starving to death right now.”

I can’t exactly forget that fact when I’m looking at fresh blood pumping through his veins. “You’ve lost so much blood already.”

“Not like I’m using it,” he snaps. “At least we know Miasma will feed me if I start looking anemic. So how about we let her worry about me and let me worry about you?” 

He thrusts his arm in front of me again, and involuntarily I touch his wrist. His skin is so warm. His pulse is so strong. 

I’ve never been good at self-denial.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Juno,” I whisper.

“You won’t. I trust you.”

Dangerous words to say to a vampire.

Finally I bring his wrist to my lips. I’m dizzy with hunger, but I bite down carefully, cutting the skin without tearing it and opening his veins without severing them. When the wound heals, it will heal quickly and with little scarring. I can do that for him, at least.

Then the blood hits my tongue, and all conscious thought flees my mind. It’s hot and rich, drenching me after too many weeks spent parched. The fresh vitae surges through me, leaving me thrumming with energy I haven’t felt in so long.

I suckle greedily, licking the skin around the wound to encourage the blood to flow. The noises I’m making are obscene. 

Juno should be horrified right now, but he doesn’t discourage me. His other arm is wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me closer with every gasp, and I realize absently that I don’t know which of us is gasping.

I can taste desire in his veins– the seratonin and oxytocin and endorphines that are quickly drowning out the bitter tang of cortisol, and they leave me giddy with secondhand pleasure.

“Oh Juno,” I purr, finally taking my mouth off his wrist. “Are you enjoying yourself?” 

His eyes are glazed, but they’re fixed on my mouth. My red lips. My sharp teeth. “Yeah.” 

I roll with strength I didn’t have before, settling on top of him, his hips between my knees. I can see his pulse jumping in his veins. Fresh adrenaline flavors the blood still seeping from his arm; I can smell it from here. His pupils are blown wide, the sweet blue of his eyes barely visible around the black.

“I can make it even better for you,” I promise, my breath soft against his ear. 

His head tilts to one side, exposing the succulent planes of his neck. I trace those lovely veins with my lips. My teeth scrape his throat, and he takes a long, shuddering breath.

It would be so easy. The slightest pressure, and I could break the skin. He wants it, too– I can already feel the moans building in his throat. I could do anything to him right now. I could fuck him. I could drain him dry. I could kill him, and he’d thank me for the privilege.

I press a toothless kiss to his throat and pull back, struggling to ignore the needy whine that follows. 

“You don’t have to stop, you know,” Juno says, almost pleading.

“I don’t have to take any more, either.”

He trusts me. I won’t betray that trust, even if a part of him wants me to.

I take his arm in hand and apply pressure close to his elbow to stop the bleeding, gently licking the excess off his wrist. We’ll need to wrap the wound so it won’t come into contact with the dirty floor– I’m sure the assistants will bring us some bandages if I call.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, still watching me lean over his arm.

“Sated,” I tell him. Not entirely satisfied, but I don’t dare take that much from him while we’re down here. Maybe later, when all this is over and we’re somewhere safe, I’ll hold him down and give in to every single one of my cravings. Later, though, when I’m certain he’ll survive the experience. For now, this is more than enough. “Thank you, Juno.” 

“No problem,” he says. His fingers have already strayed to his throat, brushing the light scratches I left there. “Any time.”

I’ll be sure to take him up on that later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eternalgirlscout asked:
> 
> is feeding + sex a combo that always happens in the vampire au? i know they were together for a while before they had the "you can drink my blood" conversation; was it hard for vampire!peter to get it on with juno without getting his teeth in him?

I wasn’t exactly new to sex before I met Peter Nureyev. Hell, I was a bit of a connoisseur. I’ve been a one-night stand, a booty call, the anonymous fuck in the bathroom of a club and the back-alley blowjob that you wish you were drunk enough to forget. 

But God, it’s been a long time since it’s been like this.

‘Make love’ is a phrase I haven’t used in fifteen years, but it’s the only one that comes remotely close to what he’s doing to me right now.

His fingertips are gliding over me so lightly that I can barely feel them. He kisses my scars– every single one– with the kind of reverence that belongs to things that are holy. His voice is so low and soft that I can only catch every third word, and half of those are in languages I can only barely name. What’s left is a litany of praises: “beautiful, precious, my treasure, my darling”. And when he’s holding me like that, kissing me like that, I can almost believe he means it.

“You–” I’m not ashamed to be gasping. It’s a miracle I’m breathing at all when he’s taking me apart this way. “You don’t have to–” 

He hums against my skin, and I can feel it in my bones. “I want to.”

And I get it. I do. 

I’ve been with vampires who feel guilty for what they take, who want to make up for it by being gentle and sweet. I’ve been with others who figured out that the easiest way of keeping a steady supply of blood is being so goddamn good that you couldn’t stay away. It’s not a bad strategy– hell, it kept me coming back for years.

But I want him to know it doesn’t have to be like that. He has nothing to apologize for. He doesn’t have to bribe me to stay. Everything in me is his for the taking. 

Why the hell would he want to stick around if not for a meal ticket? 

Isn’t that what he’s here for?

And dammit, I’m okay with that. I’m okay with giving him what I know he needs. More than okay– I _want_ to know I’m not the only one getting something out of this arrangement. I want him to take as much as he wants. I tell him so, over and over again, mostly babbling like an idiot when I’m too wrecked to think straight.

So why won’t he?

He takes me apart a thousand ways every night, but he won’t take a drop. He just sits there and watches me come undone like I’m some kind of miracle– like that’s enough for him.

Like _I’m_ enough for him. 

And that can’t be right. I know it can’t. But when he’s like that, his mouth hanging open and his head thrown back when he comes, I can almost believe it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of anons asked for more.

From the beginning, every time Juno and I worked together, he wound up bleeding by the day’s end– first from a row of titanium spikes embedded in his arm, then from the pressures that the Lessoniana Growth put on his eye. When we finally reunited, there was yet another fight that left him ragged and bloody.

And yet I was surprised that it _kept_ happening. As if this was something new and unusual, rather than the routine course of events in the life of Juno Steel. As if he was born with those constellations of stars on his skin, instead of earning them in a thousand fights during the course of his career. As if all that blood was just bait to lure me in, and he wouldn’t need it anymore once I decided to stay.

It’s absurd, isn’t it? But such are the little superstitions we make for ourselves.

I take precautions, of course. When we go on cases together, I always linger a little behind, letting Juno call his secretary and make his deductions while I discreetly siphon blood off whatever gangsters we’ve left in our wake. These days I feed often enough that I only need a few mouthfuls to keep me sated. I’m sure the unwitting donors don’t even notice.

Juno does; I can see it in his eye after I’ve fed, though he doesn’t mention it.

I haven’t fed on Juno since that first time in the tomb, a few short days before I made my escape. Afterward, he was in no condition for another round, and besides, I’d already drained two of Miasma’s assistants dry on my way to rescue him.

The next morning, he was gone. I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what he was running from– Commitment? Change? A chance at happiness?

Or me?

I don’t hold it against him.

Letting me feed on him was an act of mercy. If we got carried away during the course of it– well, it wouldn’t be the first time. People react in odd ways to losing that much blood. Some people are fine in the moment and realize they’re horrified hours later, once the reality of it has the chance to sink in properly.

Juno’s had plenty of time for that.

* * *

There’s been a dry spell lately. Not that business has been bad, so much as it’s been tame– cheating spouses and low-level insurance fraud for the most part, without so much as a rowdy teenager starting trouble from a back alley. As much as I’m pleased by the sight of Juno without bruises for once, I’m anxious. These days I try not to go three days without feeding, and it’s been more than a week. The hunger is still mild, only enough to leave me lethargic and a bit distracted, but I still remember what real hunger feels like.

It wasn’t so long ago that I was locked in that tomb, trying to convince myself that Juno wasn’t food while the hunger insisted that he was.

I never want to feel that way again.

I make up my mind. When Juno’s asleep, I’ll step out for the night. It’s been a while since I’ve had to mug anyone for a meal, but it’s hardly the sort of skill one forgets with time.

I’m plotting out my precise route when Juno leans against the chair I’m sitting on. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Hm? Nothing, really.”

“You’ve been twitchy for days,” he says.

Oh, come now, I can’t have been that obvious. “I haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about.” 

“You’ve been staring at the clock for the past hour.”

“It’s nothing, really,” I say, waving him off. “There’s just an errand I’ve been meaning to run.”

“At one thirty in the morning?” He says it lightly, but he can’t quite hide the undercurrent of accusation in his tone. “If you wanted a midnight snack, you could have said something.”

I suppose he wouldn’t be much of a detective if he couldn’t put together the clues, given what he knows.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I have no intention of killing anyone while I’m out.”

He’s guarded, already resigned in anticipation of pain. “If you want to go out, I’m not going to stop you. But I’m here if you’re hungry now.” There’s a look in his eye that doesn’t quite match the rest of him. If I didn’t know better, I might think it was… jealousy?

It can’t be.

Can it?

“Juno,” I say carefully. “Does it bother you when I feed on other people?” 

“What? Of course not. A guy’s got to eat, right? Doesn’t bother you when I stop by the bistro for a sandwich, does it? I’m just saying you’ve got options, that’s all.” He says it too quickly, pushing off the chair and pacing away from me, like if he says the words fast enough he might actually believe them. “Listen, if I– I don’t know, if I taste bad or something, I get it, but–”

He doesn’t notice me until I’m right behind him. I can be absolutely silent when I need to be.

Not letting a laugh creep into my voice is a more difficult matter. He’s so cute when he tries to lie.

I twine my fingers with his, my palm flush against the back of his hand. “Juno, you are delectable.” On the flat of his wrist is a scar, thin and faded, from the last time I bit into him. I raise it to my mouth and kiss that scar, gently.

His pulse stutters under my lips. He’s turned, just slightly, to watch me over his shoulder. His free hand is drawn against his chest, his fingertips brushing his throat.

I look at him through lowered lashes. “Is that something you want, Juno?”

His response is so soft it’s barely a breath, but it’s certain. ” _Yes_.”

I wrap my other arm around his waist, pulling him even closer. His fingers are still dancing across his neck, and I lean in, chasing them with my lips. His heart is racing. His head tilts to one side in offering.

I bury my face in the curve where shoulder meets neck, nosing past the edge of his collar. His skin hot against my lips, soft under my teeth, and his breath hitches. When I pull back, two lines of pinpricks run across his shoulder, each one beading with droplets of blood like tiny rubies. I lap them away with a flick of my tongue.

I wasn’t lying; the taste of him makes my mouth water.

This isn’t like Miasma’s tomb. He’s eating well– we both are, this little dry spell notwithstanding– and he isn’t losing blood on a daily basis. A little bit of indulgence won’t hurt him.

The next bite is on Juno’s earlobe, and he shivers against me. “Your shirt, love. Take it off.”

I only take my hands off him for a second, but it’s enough for him to peel the shirt off and over his head. By the time I whirl him around and pin him to the wall, the shirt hangs forgotten from one hand.

“Oh, Juno,” I murmur, flattening myself against him. Fresh blood has welled in that little love-bite, though it’s hopelessly smeared. Another long drag of tongue, and the skin is fresh and clean again.

My knees bend, and I slide lower against his chest. There’s only a little bit of rib and sinew between me and his heart; I can hear it racing. I can feel it, when I sink my teeth into his pectoral. The muscle tenses in time with his sharp inhale, but he doesn’t pull me away. Adrenaline laces his beaded blood, sweet and intoxicating.

I slide lower.

When I bite into his side, he lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. He’s ticklish there, I observe, and I lick at the wound perhaps longer than necessary, just to hear him stifle another laugh.

I’m on my knees now, my hands sliding down his waist to settle on the hem of his pants.

“If–” Juno swallows. A button, a zipper, and I slide them down, just a few inches. “If you wanted those off, you should’ve said something. I could’ve– fuck, _Peter_.”

I pull back to admire the fresh lines of pinpricks on the jut of his hip. “That _is_ the idea.”

He’s hard now, and the strain of it against his clothes makes tugging his pants down further a touch difficult. Still, I manage it. There are certain skills one picks up after a century as a master thief. Little lessons in anatomy, too– like the concentration of veins on the body, particularly along the inner thigh.

The nips trailing down his body have been light, delicate. Dainty nibbles that leave pinprick cuts in their wake. 

I bite down in earnest, and Juno swears. His cock, inches from my face, strains and bobs. His thighs flex, and I can feel the muscles shifting around my teeth. It’s intoxicating even before the blood flows. It’s dizzying, so much all at once. A rush of heady ambrosia that awakens a feral hunger I didn’t know I had. 

I’m aware of everything: the spikes of his pulse, the labor of his lungs, the electricity surging through him as muscles fight themselves not to thrust against me. I’m so consumed by him that I lose track of larger details. I don’t know how long Juno’s been on the floor, or how long I’ve been on top of him. I don’t know how long I’ve been licking stripes down his cock– long enough that I can taste cum in the back of my throat, but not so long that the blood dripping down his thigh has the chance to reach the floor. The blood is thickening there, the platelets building to staunch the wound. I could set it loose again, suck until it flows freely over my tongue.

But when I look up, Juno’s watching me, propped up on one elbow because he can’t sit up anymore. He’s panting for breath, but he reaches out for me.

“Peter,” he rasps, voice hoarse like he’s been screaming.

I rise from between his legs and crawl back into his arms, pressing kisses to the edge of his jaw. They’re gentle, but each one leaves behind a splash of red on his skin. I hum in satisfaction at the sight: stamped with blood and bruises, Juno looks as completely undone as I feel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> have you thought about doing more of the vampire!nureyev fic? maybe from juno's pov? mostly i just really want to read about the lady getting very flustered about those teeeeeeth

I don’t know how I’m supposed to get any work done like this.

Peter’s supposed to be helping me with this goddamned paperwork, but either he’s forgotten what the Martian alphabet looks like, or he’s given up on making sense and decided to start doodling instead.

It’s not a _finished_ doodle, though– at least, I don’t think it is. That would require him taking the pen out of his mouth. He keeps worrying it between his lips, or sucking absently at it, or tapping the plastic against his teeth.

God _damn_ , those teeth. 

I’ve got their imprint etched into my wrist from that time in the tomb. I know he’s still self-conscious about it, but honestly? It’s the one souvenir I don’t mind about that place. 

I can still feel his mouth against my wrist, the wet heat of his tongue on my skin, the dozen pinpricks of pain that widened and bloomed white-hot in a way that shouldn’t have felt as good as it did– and then that look on his face when the last of his composure shattered and he began to drink for real: ravenous and animal, desperate for something only I could give him. 

I’ve had people fuck me with less enthusiasm.

I must have been staring, because he pulls the pen from his mouth. “Are you finished, Juno?” 

“Not even close,” I admit. 

“Then it seems I’m in good company.” He turns his eyes back to the form and brings the pen back to his lips, and I suddenly have a hard time remembering how paper works. I’m more interested in feeling his teeth sinking into me again.

How long has it been since he’s fed? I know he stopped for some alone time with that gangster a few days ago, but since we haven’t exactly gotten the kind of cases that leave people bleeding profusely, and I haven’t noticed him feeding on anyone else. He insists on only feeding on my during dry spells, so I don’t start going anemic on him. Does this count? 

I should not be as excited about that as I am. By all rights, being fed on by a vampire should be something that I should avoid, between the blood loss and the pain and the open wound that Peter fusses over for days until it heals.

Except Peter never takes enough to hurt me– just enough to make me a little dizzy– and I’ll take pretty much any excuse to have him fawn over me. And the pain is nothing compared to the pleasure that comes with it.

I don’t know if it’s a personal kink or a vampire thing, and honestly, I don’t care.

“Juno?” 

Dammit.

“Perhaps we ought to call it a night,” he muses. “It doesn’t seem like either of us are going to get anything productive done tonight.” 

“Depends on who’s getting done,” I mutter, gathering the papers to lock them in my desk.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Did you say something?” 

Nothing I was supposed to say aloud. I try to cover with an innocuous question. “Are you hungry?” 

Wait. Shit shit shit.

But Peter grins sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?” 

I clear my throat in an attempt to sound less like an idiot. “You did seem a bit fidgety tonight.” I lower my voice into something that might pass for sultry. “I could take care of that for you.” 

“If you want,” he says, trying just as hard to play coy. Now that I’ve noticed it, I can see the hunger in his eyes. “I don’t want you to feel obligated, Juno.”

It would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so goddamn sweet. I sweep closer, pulling him into a kiss. “It would be my pleasure.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> i know it's been a while since you wrote anything for the vampire!nureyev au, but can we get him feeding on juno again? between juno's pain kink and how much being a vampire suits nureyev i'm so weak for that au

An old partner of mine used to tell me that there’s no such thing as too much foreplay. I’m taking a stand here and now: that is bullshit. I’d be willing to swear by it, except I’m too busy swearing about other things to be coherent about much of anything right now. 

Peter’s on top of me, grinding and gyrating on my lap until I’m so hard it hurts, but he won’t let me do anything with it. My hands are pinned to the back of the chair, his hands wrapped around my wrist like shackles. His mouth is on my throat, his breath hot and heavy, his teeth sliding against my skin. I can feel the lightest scrape of the canines, just barely more than a tickle but not quite enough to cut, and it’s driving me insane. 

“Fuck,” I’m rasping. “Peter, just do it. Please. I’m ready. I’m so goddamn ready.”

“Shhh,” he whispers against my throat. ‘You’re so delicate here.” His tongue flicks over my jugular, and I shudder. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, love.” 

“Go right ahead.” I buck underneath him again. “Hurt me. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, I can take it.” I can take anything but waiting another goddamn second. 

He teases me with another scrape of teeth just under my earlobe. “Not when you’re so tense, love. I want you to relax.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I’m so worked up I might just claw myself out of my skin, and he wants me to _calm down_?

“Not at all.” He slides against my chest again. “I want you to trust me, Juno. Trust me completely.” 

“I do.” I’m whining. “ _Please_.”

“Then _relax_.” He purrs it into my ear like a riddle, like there’s something I’m supposed to be taking away from this aside from the sheer impossibility of it.

So I try. It takes more will than I thought I had, but I force myself to stop writhing underneath him, and I go still, every muscle clenched with the effort of keeping myself restrained. I might be losing my mind, but Peter’s velvety chuckle tells me I’m on the right track.

 _Relax_ , he said.

So I let the tension drain out of me. You wouldn’t think it should take much effort, but it does: it’s like I have to go in manually and tell my muscles to uncoil, but slowly, piece by piece, I do. My shoulders sag, my head tips back, my arms go limp in his grip. 

I glance up at him through a half-lidded eye. His own are bright and practically sparkling. 

“That’s perfect, love,” he whispers, and he’s so close I want to tense up, but I keep still. His lips search my neck again, and his breath is hot and heavy against my skin. “Absolutely perfect.”

I know what’s coming next. My blood is racing in anticipation and fear, but I don’t let myself go tense again.

It’s complete surrender. Whatever he wants to do to me, whatever he wants to take, I’m his. 

I can feel his teeth sinking into me, slowly splitting skin and slicing vein. It hurts, but there’s a sweetness to the pain. An intimacy. He’s entirely in control of us both, and he won’t let anything happen to me. 

His hands leave my wrists, and he cradles my head in his arms, angling me just right for him to drink. I can feel my blood pouring out and filling his mouth. I can feel the texture of his tongue on my throat as he laps away a stray drop. He presses his lips to the wound and _sucks_ , and I can’t help a soft intake of breath– not a gasp so much as a sigh. 

He does it again, and this time there’s a snap to his hips, a glorious friction between his cock and mine. I almost grind against him, but I force myself to stay still and boneless. It’s dizzying– there are so many things for me to focus on, so many parts of my body that are straining to reciprocate, but I have to keep them soft and limp, and that only makes me even more aware of every sensation crackling like electricity through my nerves.

“That’s right, Juno.” I can’t see his grin, but I can feel it against my neck, and I can hear it in his voice as he chuckles. “Just like that.” 

His hips snap again, and then again. He’s not grinding against me anymore so much as he’s fucking me. I’m aching to rise up and meet him, to pull him closer until there’s nothing but friction between us. My muscles are tightening with every thrust, and if he keeps going like this I might just fold in half, but I don’t move. I stay pliant beneath him, caught in the sweet surrender. All the while he’s drinking so deep I can feel the suction in my veins, and the relief between the long draws is almost intoxicating– and not just for me.

When he pulls back for just a second, he looks dizzy. His hair is hair disheveled, his face flushed with fresh blood, his lips red, his eyes so dark that I can barely see the irises anymore. 

“Juno,” he gasps in the short moment when his lips leave my throat. His breath comes in shudders. His voice is a moan. “My perfect– my lovely– my beautiful Juno.” 

I’m so lightheaded that only one word makes it all the way through my haze. _His_. I’m _his_. 

He sucks so hard that for a split second I think there might be more of me inside him than there is left in me, and that’s all it takes to send me over the edge. Orgasm rips through me like a sandstorm, so overwhelming that I’m senseless for a few seconds. When my mind comes back from its short-circuit, my arms are wrapped around Peter, my fingernails digging into his shoulders like I’m hanging on for dear life. He’s still on my lap but pulled away just enough that he can get himself in hand, his eyes fixed on me like I’m the hottest goddamn thing he’s ever seen. I come down from my haze just in time to watch him come. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theflatwoodsmonsterisalesbian asked:
> 
> Just wondering in the vanpire fic how does one turn someone into vampire? Has peter offered to do so to juno? Does he not want juno to have to be a vampire like him? Has he ever accidently almost turned him? (My old twilight fan self is peeking out from the box she's shoved in)

Juno is shuddering, and I can’t tell if it’s from the blood loss or the aftershocks of orgasm. I have just enough motivation left to apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding, and then I’m kissing his mouth with the same fervor that I applied to his neck a few moments before. He’s gasping for air by the time I pull myself away, and his lips are stained red. 

_It’s a good color on you_ , I think. 

_I could kiss you forever if you didn’t need to breathe_. 

W _e could do this for the rest of eternity, you know_.

I don’t say the words out loud. He’s too pliant, as delirious as he is now from lack of blood and excess of sex. I could ask him anything and he would give it to me without a second thought. 

At least, not at first.

But he would think about it again. He would have until the end of time to fill with regret or resentment. If he joins me, I want it to be his decision. I want him to be sure.

So I hold back the offer and I make another one instead. “Water?” 

He nods mutely, and I cradle his head in my arms as I raise a glass to his lips.

* * *

It’s a slow day at the office when I bring it up. 

“I could turn you, if you’d like.” 

Juno looks up from his game of Solitaire. “Turn me where?”

_Right here, if we locked the door and sent Rita on vacation for a little while._

“Into a vampire,” I say instead. 

He saves the game, despite the fact that he’ll never pick it up again, and closes out of the application. When he he turns back to me, I have his full attention.

He looks like he’s waiting for something.

“Is that something you’d like?” I ask carefully. 

“I don’t know,” he says with just as much caution. “Let me think about it?”

That much is probably a good sign. Most people are either enthusiastic about being turned or violently opposed to the idea. Hesitation means he’s actually thinking about it.

I don’t push further.

* * *

Weeks have passed before we talk about it again, and he’s the one who brings it up.

“Getting turned fixes you, doesn’t it?” 

It’s so abrupt that it takes me a few moments to catch up. “There’s a degree of healing involved.” It’s a necessary step, of course; considering the injuries necessary to drain a person of that much blood, most fledgling vampires would be little more than raw meat if there wasn’t at least some healing involved. 

“Not like that,” he says. “Like how you don’t actually need your glasses.” 

I flash a grin. I wear them mostly out of habit and sentiment– and because frames do wonders for changing the shape of the face. I suppose it was only a matter of time before he figured that out. 

“One of the vampires I used to know had some pretty bad nerve damage as a kid. Getting turned fixed that for xir.” 

“That can happen.” 

He holds the next sentence in his mouth for a moment too long, looking for all the world like he intends to swallow it back down again. 

And finally he lets it out. “You think it would fix me?”

I think about that for a moment. “I’m not sure. I’ve never heard of regrowing something as extensive as an eye, but then–”

“Not my eye,” he says. “Me.”

I go very still.

I want to tell him that there’s nothing to fix– that I love him completely, bad days and all. But he isn’t asking for assurances or platitudes. I can’t tell him there’s nothing wrong when I’ve seen him stare up at me like he’s lost in the void. 

“I… don’t know,” I admit. 

“If you turned me tomorrow and it didn’t, I’d be stuck like this forever. Peter, there are days when I don’t want to make it to the end of the week. I mean, sure, it’s gotten better since you arrived, but they still happen. How am I supposed to keep it together for another ten or twelve centuries?” He runs his hand through his thick curls. “And if it did– if you turned me, and suddenly I’m not depressed– would I even be me anymore? I mean, the person you like. The person you want to be with. How much of that would change? I mean, vampirism isn’t like meds. You can’t just quit if it doesn’t agree with you.” He lowers his voice to a mutter. “Or I can’t, anyway. You could.” 

I take his hand. “Human or vampire, Juno, I’m not going anywhere.” 

“And if I change?”

“It’s not about _if_ ,” I tell him. “You are going to change, whether because of vampirism or age or the passage of time. That much is inevitable.” I lift my hand to stroke his cheek. “But so is the fact that I will be here when you do. And I will love you then like I love you now.”

He shuts his eye and leans his forehead against mine with a heavy sigh.

He doesn’t give me an answer, and I don’t ask.

When he makes a decision, he’ll let me know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martianbitch asked:  
> could you maybe write another installment of the vampire!nureyev fics? i love them so much thanks
> 
> So my very favorite bit of vampire mythology is this little folkloric artifact that vampires are repelled by roses. The why of it tends to vary– either it’s because the thorns, like hawthorn thorns, will catch on their skin and keep them trapped, or because the fragrance is as repellent to them as garlic is, or because the petals burn them, or because if you put roses on a vampire’s grave it can’t leave. 
> 
> It’s just such an odd little quirk to the single most popular flower in western culture.

The moment Juno opens the door, my nerves are on edge. It takes several seconds on alert to realize that the visceral reaction I’m having is to a smell– something deceptively delicate and sweet, almost cloying. Insidious, really. 

Then I see the parcel clutched in Juno’s fist: tissue paper and a thin sheet of plastic wrapped around the stems of a dozen blood-red flowers.

Roses.

But… _why_?

Is Juno upset with me? Is this a quiet way to tell me that he’s in a mood and he wants me to give him space? I thought we were in a good place– I thought we were past snide little barbs like this. If there’s a problem, Juno should have just _said_ something. 

But he doesn’t look sullen or angry. If anything, he seems self-conscious– even nervous. When he notices my puzzled stare, he clears his throat.

“I… uh… I saw them on the way home,” he says, his voice almost a mutter. “I realized I don’t really get you… you know, flowers. And you’re the kind of guy who deserves to get nice things. So… here.” He holds out the bouquet like he expects me to throw it to the floor.

It’s obvious how hard he has to fight to get the words out. With every syllable he’s opening himself up to embarrassment and rejection. I’m proud of him for trying so hard, and I’m touched that he’s doing it for me.

So I take them, even though I can feel the thorns jutting through the tissue, dangerously close to my hands. 

“Thank you, Juno,” I say, and I mean it sincerely. “They’re beautiful.“

* * *

The bouquet of roses finds its way into a drinking glass, and later, into a little vase. Every time Juno passes it, a little smile crosses his face, like this is evidence that he did something right and good. I’m not about to tell him otherwise.

I can avoid touching the roses well enough, thanks to the thick glass of the vase, and I can use a washcloth to clean up the petals when they fall. The smell is harder to avoid– within an hour, it floods the apartment and clings to my skin and clothes– but I find ways to cope. I breathe through my mouth when I can, and I’m a little too generous with my cologne. Juno certainly doesn’t complain about that, or about the way I press my face into his skin and inhale the far more pleasant aroma of sweat and exertion after a case. 

I find excuses to stay away from the apartment– when we aren’t out on a case together, I take him out for long walks on the town, for meals at restaurants he’s never had occasion to try, for movies with Rita. Rita certainly seems to enjoy those; perhaps it will outweigh my breaking her little rule against sex in the office. To my credit, it’s always after she’s gone home. And besides, how am I supposed to show my lady a good time when I can’t breathe without inhaling those damned flowers?

* * *

Finally.

The roses are thoroughly dead, too wilted to justify leaving them on the table any longer. 

As fast as I can without arousing suspicion, I drain the last of the water out of the vase and try to tip it into the kitchen garbage– but the roses cling to the edge of the vase, refusing to budge.

If I were to think about it properly, I might use a fork or something of the sort to pry the more stubborn flowers from the vase, but I’m too eager to get them out of the apartment so I can move on with my life, and so I do the stupid thing: I reach in and grab them with my bare hand.

It’s a stupid mistake, and I instantly regret it– not least of all because those vicious thorns are as sharp as ever, and one of them slices deep into my finger. Before I can stop myself, I hiss and yank my hand back, and the vase clatters across the kitchen counter. 

“Peter?” Juno calls from the next room. “You okay?”

“Fine!” It’s not my best performance, but it’s hard to be an effective liar when white-hot pain is burning through my veins. “I’m–” I can’t even think of the words to finish that sentence. God, _it hurts_.

"Peter?” I don’t know when he arrived, but suddenly Juno is at my side, his eyes wide with worry. “Peter, what happened? Let me see.” 

He pries my good hand off the wound, and immediately I clamp down around my wrist, as if I could dull the pain by keeping it out of my bloodstream. I can’t, and I know that, but the instinct to hold on is too strong.

Juno manages to get a close look at my hand, but he looks nonplussed. As far as he can tell, it’s just a cut. And it _is_ – the thorn that nicked me couldn’t have been more than a centimeter long. It isn’t as though it’s a hawthorn stake to the chest. But that doesn’t stop the pain.

“Peter, what happened?” he asks again, slowly. 

“Just–” I hiss out a breath. “Just caught myself on a thorn. It’ll pass in– in a few–” 

Juno looks at the offending roses, still clinging to the edge of the vase halfway across the kitchen counter. “What the hell– were they poisoned or something?”

“No, not–” Another hissed breath. It’s hard to focus on the words, but least talking gives me something else to focus on. “Roses generally don’t agree with– with vampires. It’s some sort of–” _Fuck_. “–of allergy.”

“Will water help?” Juno asks. “Hell, if it’s allergies, I’ve got some loradatine. Or ibuprofin?”

Oh, my sweet Detective.

“No,” I manage to say, still strained but getting better. “Just– just give me a few minutes. I’ll be alright.” 

For a few seconds he frets empty-handed, and then he grabs the vase and pulls out the dead roses. The thorns prick at his hand before he tosses them into the trash, but they don’t even break the skin. I don’t know what it is about vampire skin that lets the thorns carve through us so easily, but it’s something that humans don’t share. He pulls out the trash bag and ties it off, leaving it by the front door to take outside later, and then he gets to work scrubbing the last remnants of the bouquet out of the vase.

While he works, the pain finally starts to subside– first to a mere stabbing pain, and then to a sharp ache. 

“That’s one hell of an allergy.” Once the atoms of roses have been purged from the vase, he starts scrubbing the counter. “Why didn’t you tell me that was going to happen? I would have gotten rid of them ages ago.”

“They really were lovely, though.” I flash a small smile. “And they were from you.”

“Dammit, Peter,” he mutters, exasperated and tender. “I can get you other flowers.” He leans his forehead against mine. “Are snapdragons okay?”

I can barely feel the sting anymore. 

“Yes, love,” I tell him. “Snapdragons are lovely.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thesquidydude asked:
> 
> I just really like the vampire!peter porn and I think we need more of that 😭

Something’s happened. 

It’s in the slump of his shoulder, the dragging of his heels, the staggering way he walks. His expression is unfocused and empty, transfixed by ghosts only he can see.

“Juno?” I’m on my feet in an instant, the blueprints on my tablet forgotten. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, like he can’t stand to look at me. His face twists with revulsion. 

I know him well enough to know I’m not the one he’s disgusted by. 

“Juno, what happened?” In a few long strides I’m at his side, and just in time: he doesn’t look like he can make it to the couch on his own. God– the elevator’s out. How did he get up all those stairs? “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” It would be an obvious lie even if his voice didn’t sound so wooden and dead. My hands sweep down his clothes, looking for tears or bruises or broken bones, but all they find are bloodied knuckles that reek of bleach that doesn’t quite mask the other scents. 

“You are not fine,” I snap, my voice too sharp to be comforting. “Juno, you’re bleeding–”

“It’s not mine.” A tremor seeps into his voice. “It’s not my blood. It’s hers.” 

My racing mind takes half an instant to make the connection: the woman who came into the office this morning. Broad shoulders and big doe eyes and a wit sharp enough to make Juno chuckle once or twice. 

My stomach twists before he says it. 

“She’s dead. She’s dead and it’s all my fault.”

“Juno, no–”

“I knew it was her manager. Goddammit, I knew it, but I didn’t say anything– I wanted to be sure– I wanted to make a whole goddamn production of it, I wanted to look good, but he grabbed a gun–” Before his voice was void of emotion; now it’s overflowing with it, pouring out of him so fast he can’t even shut his mouth properly. “I could have stopped it, Peter. I could have stopped it but _I didn’t_ and _he shot her_ and _it’s my fault she’s dead_.”

“No, Juno.” My arms wrap around him. It’s all I can do to hold him down before he’s washed away by the torrent. “He’s the one who pulled the trigger. He’s the one who killed her. You did everything you could.” We’re so close that he can’t look away, no matter how hard he wants to. No matter where he looks, I’m right in front of him. “It wasn’t your fault. You–”

So he finds another way to shut me up.

He kisses me hard– ruthlessly, painfully bruisingly so. He kisses me like he’s drowning and my lips are made of air, grabbing at my clothes like I’m his one chance of keeping afloat. 

“Please,” he begs into my mouth. “Peter, please, please, please…”

As if I need to be asked a second time. As if I need to be asked at all.

I pull him tight and squeeze until I can feel his ribs scraping against my own. He needs pressure when he gets like this. He needs to know I’m here. He needs me to hold him until the pale rotting things gnawing at Juno’s soul fall from his lips with every rasping breath.

“I’ve got you, love,” I whisper into his ear. “I’m right here.” I don’t know if Juno can even hear me, he’s shaking so hard. The shoulder of my shirt is getting heavy and damp with tears, and Juno pulls me even tighter, begging without words. 

My lips slide down Juno’s throat, whispering assurances that don’t matter as much as the feeling of my teeth against his skin with every syllable.

I know what he needs.

I sink my teeth into his shoulder. 

Juno gasps like he’s coming up for air. His spine arches, his muscles tense, and for that instant the shaking subsides. 

“I tried to save her.” It comes out like a confession, like trying and failing is somehow worse than never having tried at all. But his voice sounds calmer now than it did before.“I knew I couldn’t stop the bleeding, but I tried.” 

“I know, love.” I fit my lips to the wound and suck. It’s hard and painful– because he wants it to be. He wants to be punished for his failures. But when his blood hits my tongue, I shudder. My fingertips dig into his arms, pinning him into place against me. He couldn’t escape if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. 

At times like this, he doesn’t feel alive unless he’s dying. At times like this, his life only feels like it’s worth anything if he’s throwing it away for a cause. 

So I’ve learned to catch what he throws away, to keep it safe until he feels up to taking it back again. But not as his caretaker, or his keeper, or any of those martyr labels that make him feel unworthy of the people who love him. Because there’s one thing that makes me so uniquely suited to this life– as a vampire, as a master thief, as the partner of a private eye: I am _consummately_ selfish, and Juno Steel is the one thing I want, whether he feels worthy or not. 

I take a long pull and fall back, panting hard against his neck as I catch my breath. Blood wells in the wound and overflows, dripping down his collar. 

His shirt is an old one, cut and torn and sewn back up a few times over by now, and once again it’s stained with blood. I’ll get him a new one. This one has to go. 

I catch it in my hands and tear it apart, and the sound is loud and destructive and so _very_ satisfying– almost as much as the blood seeping down his pectoral. I lean in closer, chasing each line and laving it off his skin with my tongue. He’s far too precious to waste a single drop. 

I slide against him again, my mouth rising to his ear. 

“Your pants, Juno.” I’m so close that my lips leave a red smear against his earlobe; but I rectify that with a flick of my tongue. 

“Peter…”

“ _Your pants_.” I suck again at the wound, like I’m sucking venom out of an animal bite, like I can draw the guilt and self-loathing out of him entirely but the only poison I taste is the bitter tang of cortisol and adrenaline– the chemical evidence of his own despair. I suck harder. It hurts him– I know it does. I’m sure I’ll find bruises there in the morning. Anyone else would be pushing me away by now, but he draws me in closer, leans in to offer me more. 

We’re pressed so tight that he can only fumble one-handed between us, but mine is a lady of many talents. He finds the proper buttons and zippers and clasps and slips them free one at a time, all of them one-handed, and then that hand is on me– as though he needs to justify me being here, holding him, comforting him, feeding on him. As if his presence in my arms is something he has to earn instead of a gift he gives me every time I hold him. 

So I let him see. 

My breath goes ragged, my shoulders sag, and I pull away to take a proper look at him: with his shirt torn open and his blood pouring down his chest and his pants sliding down his thighs and his cock hard and needy. How could any vampire resist the sight of him? How could anyone at all? 

He doesn’t resist when I push him into the couch, only gasps when I climb on top of him, slide against him, grind my anatomy against his while I lap the blood from his chest. 

“Fuck,” Juno rasps. His his hand closes around my cock, pressing it tight against his own. I can feel them rubbing together, sliding against each other with a friction that will probably be painful later, but right now I can’t be bothered to care. “Fuck, Peter…" 

"If you insist.” I snap my hips, and for a moment my entire world narrows to those two exquisite points: the feel of him against my cock, and the taste of him in my mouth. I snap my hips again, and I revel in the sight of his pupils so wide that he looks almost drugged, the feel of his hand moving against me. His lips part, so I kiss him– hard and bruising, just like every other part of this. I can’t immediately tell if the blood in my mouth is from his throat or if I accidentally split his lip, but he doesn’t seem to care. He bucks beneath me, growing wilder and more frantic with every thrust. His tongue is in my mouth, all but fondling the sharp edges of my teeth. And then he pulls away, his head thrown back against the couch, and he pushes my face back to the open wound on his throat. 

“Peter– Peter, I need you– please–" 

I can only laugh in that way he loves so very much.

As if I would ever leave my lady unsatisfied.

I wrap my lips around the wound and I suck again, long and steady, while I fuck him harder, harder, harder–

And then he’s coming hard, hot and wet into my hand. I lean back, still straddling him, and I lick the salt-sweetness of him off my palm, savoring every drop. His breath is still ragged, his pupils blown wide, and his hand is on mine, pumping me hard despite his shaking hands. He’s just so absolutely, beautifully wrecked, and still so intent on seeing this through. 

"In my mouth,” he whispers, trying to adjust himself without letting go of me. “Peter, I want you to finish in my mouth. I want to taste you. I want…" 

He doesn’t have to ask again. I’m teetering on the presipise, my every muscle agonizingly tense, every nerve in my body begging for release. He slides down the couch until his breath is hot against my thighs. 

His lips wrap around me, his tongue slides against my head, and I come. He swallows me down with an impossible enthusiasm, swallowing my come as eagerly as I drank his blood. I can’t help but wonder.

"Do you have any idea how exquisite you taste?”

He pulls off my cock slowly, almost reluctantly. I suspect if he could talk without taking me out of his mouth, he would. “I could ask you the same question." 

I hum wordlessly, cradling his face in my hands. "Thank you for that, Juno.”

“I didn’t do anything…” he begins, but his voice fades. He isn’t going to spoil my bliss. 

“Shall we take care of this?” My hand drifts down to the bite on his neck. It’s more ragged than I would prefer; it’ll take some time to heal, and even then it might leave a scar. 

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, and this time he doesn’t fight me on it. I know he might, otherwise. Even now, he bristles at the thought of me trying to comfort him. Aftercare, on the other hand– that’s a concept that he understands. He’ll accept soft touches if they’re meant to soothe the breaks on his skin. He’ll take comfort food if it means replenishing the blood that he lost. He’ll let me fuss over him if he convinces himself I’m only worried about assuaging my guilt and protecting my food supply. And if doing so will let me comfort him, I am perfectly satisfied with indulging those misconceptions.

I have always been selfish. I can be selfish enough for us both. 


End file.
